


This Is As Easy As Lovers Go

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins- like most things do, when it comes to them- with a petty, drawn-out argument that culminates in furious, up against the wall sex. </p><p>“Never again,” Clarke tells him after, scowling when he bats her underwear over so it hits her squarely on the forehead, “I mean it, Bellamy. This isn’t going to be a regular occurrence or anything.”</p><p>He shrugs, tries to bite back the smirk pulling at his mouth, “Whatever you say, your worship.”</p><p>Or: Bellamy Blake’s not sure how he went from sleeping with Clarke Griffin to being in a relationship with her, but here they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is As Easy As Lovers Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tacosandflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacosandflowers/gifts).



> Written for molly, who writes very awesome fics for fandom that you should check out if you haven't already.

It begins- like most things do, when it comes to them- with a petty, drawn-out argument that culminates in furious, up against the wall sex.

“Never again,” Clarke tells him after, scowling when he bats her underwear over so it hits her squarely on the forehead, “I  _ mean  _ it, Bellamy. This isn’t going to be a regular occurrence or anything.”

He shrugs, tries to bite back the smirk pulling at his mouth, “Whatever you say, your worship.”

It lasts for all of two weeks before she corners him in a closet at Octavia’s house, biting at his neck and making him swear against the hollow of her throat, hands digging into hips and kisses harsh.

And so it goes.

 

+

Bellamy wakes up to the sensation of a sharp, jabbing pain against his ribs. 

He swears under his breath, tightening his grip on her waist and easing her to the side in a single practiced movement, nestling closer after. It’s a little known fact that Clarke fidgets in her sleep- all flailing limbs and bumping noses- but he’s pretty much adapted to the situation. Months of practice tends to allow you to do so.

Her hair brushes up against his nose when she shifts and he groans, trying surreptitiously to dislodge strands of it from his mouth. She gives a half-hearted scoff, all disapproving, before finding his hand and lacing their fingers together.

“You’re all sticky.” Clarke mumbles, words muffled against the pillow, “It’s gross.”

“It’s hot out,” he retorts, burying his face against the crook of her neck all while kicking off the sweaty tangle of sheets down to their ankles, “and  _ you’re _ the who insisted to sleep with the blankets on.”

“I can’t sleep naked  _ and _ without a blanket.” she grouses, turning over to face him, nuzzling his chest when he tangles his fingers in her hair, working out the knots carefully. Clarke’s bed head is nothing short of legendary.

She yelps when he tugs a little too hard on her scalp, pinches at his hip in retaliation, “Don’t you have work today?”

“No,” he grunts, draping the finished section of hair across her neck and starting on another, “first day of summer, remember? School’s out.”

She swears, lurching upwards and nearly taking off his arm, “I forgot about that. Shit, I’m going to be late for work.”

Bellamy frowns, propping himself up on his elbows, “Do you need me to call you a cab?”

“That’d be good,” she says, distracted, shimmying her pants on, “have you seen my shirt?”

He shrugs, rolls over to her side of the bed to retrieve the phone from its cradle. The sheets are still warm from Clarke’s body, smelling faintly of her shampoo. He scrunches at the pillows whilst the phone rings, beating out the imprint of her head pressed up against it.

“Cab will be here in a minute,” Bellamy calls out just as she barrels back into the room, still shirtless but with shoes on.

“Where the fuck did I leave my shirt?”

“Just use one of mine.”

“ _ Seriously? _ ”

Swearing under his breath, he vaults off the bed and crosses the room, yanking one of his creased white shirts off the hanger and handing it to her. She takes it, albeit reluctantly, struggling with the buttons until he gives in and does it for her.

“Thanks.” Clarke smiles, dropping a quick kiss against his mouth, pulling away way too quickly for his liking. He pitches forward, cupping her jaw and kissing her, hard, making her laugh against his mouth.

And he’s not sure what possesses him to say it really, pulling away when he hears the sharp beep of a car horn downstairs, “Maybe you should just leave a spare change of clothes here.”

She raises her brows quizzically and he finds himself flushing stupidly, scrambling to find the right words to say in this situation. This arrangement had chipped away the animosity he felt towards her for  _ months  _ now, leaving behind something akin to genuine fondness. It’s hard, he thinks, a tad grudgingly, to continue hating someone that you have grown to understand.

“Well, I don’t want you constantly stealing my shirts and making it stink of  _ your _ perfume.” he sneers, more of a reflex than anything now, but it does have its desired effect. Clarke rolls her eyes, shoving at his chest and scooping up her bag, “Tragic.”

He smirks, ducks down to give her one last bruising kiss, teeth clacking together and all heat, “Have fun at work.”

“Shut up.” she says, but there’s no heat behind the words.

She’s half-out of the door before he realises she’s actually  _ dithering _ , her fingers knotting in the hem of his shirt and twisting it aimlessly.

“It does make sense though.” Clarke goes, lifting her chin as if waiting for him to argue, “Your suggestion, that is.”

Bellamy flops back down onto the bed, tapering a smile by biting on the inside of his cheek,  “Do what you want, princess.”

 

+

He finds a pile of clothes shoved at the bottom of his closet the day after, pushed right to the corner as if she’s afraid of him spotting them. Mostly scrubs, but some paint splattered sweats too, all sad and crumpled in a heap. He irons them and hangs them up by the side. 

If she notices, she never mentions it and neither does he.

 

+

They never used to kiss before.

It had always been fast, urgent, all teeth and nails. He would lick the salt off her skin, her breath fanning across the dip of his collarbone and wonder, idly, of course, what it would be like to press his lips against hers. But the thought never lasted for long, dissipating when she scratched at his back, dug her heels against his spine.

In the end, she’s the one who kisses him first.  

Her lips are softer than he thought they would be, barely a brush of lips before she pulls away, trembling. It doesn’t feel angry, or rushed, or anything familiar when it comes to them.

The world tilts on its axis, disorientating and foreign.

He never used to worry about kissing, about  _ Clarke _ , but his hands shake when he finally surges back up to kiss her, clumsy and uncoordinated, his pulse hammering so loud in his ears that he can’t hear anything else except for the click of her teeth, the sigh she leaves in his mouth.

“That was okay, right?” she asks him after, fingers curling over his shoulders.

He swallows, rasps, “That was good.”

And in the tenuous, strained silence after, he keeps his hand pressed against her cheek, holding her there. Maybe it’ll be enough to keep them from breaking.

 

+

It bothers him- just slightly- that the first person he picks out in the crowd is Clarke.

It’s probably just the hair, Bellamy reasons, tampering down an irrational flare of annoyance. She’s braided it up, all intricate swirls and wisps of baby hair peeking out, the fancy kind that Octavia begged him to do for her when she was a kid. He could never get it quite as neat as hers, which only makes him grumpier about the entire situation.

Drawing up behind her, he reaches over to tug on one of the braids, loosening it, “So what’s the occasion?”

She rolls her eyes, swats his hand away, “I had something on before this.”

“Ah,” he nods, serene, “let me guess, a world summit then followed by a few gala dinners--”

“Nah, it was a ball, actually.” Clarke says, prim, poking her tongue out at him, “Way more of a big deal than some  _ gala _ .”

He grins, jostling her knee and pinning his ankle over hers so she can’t kick out at him, “You’re such a snob.”

She wiggles out of his grip easily, running her foot further up his calf; a small, pleased smile inching up her face when he squirms in his seat, ears going pink, “And you’re kind of a prude.”

“ _ Clarke. _ ”

Arching her brow at him, she drops her foot, moving it up the inside of his thigh instead, making him sputter--

Thankfully, that’s when he feels a clap on his back and Clarke pulls away in a fluid motion, turning to face her drink instead while Bellamy tries valiantly to compose himself. His face still feels hot, a prickly flush descending down the back of his neck, and he has to clear his throat so his voice doesn’t come out as a squeak, “Hey.”

“You’re late.” Octavia frowns, pinching at the skin of his elbow when he grunts in response, “We’ve been here for _ ages. _ ”

“I had stuff to do.” he mumbles, avoiding Raven’s suddenly piercing gaze. “So what do I have to do to get a drink here?”

Sighing, Octavia reaches past him to wave the bartender over and he settles back in his seat, pointedly  _ not  _ looking over at Clarke even though he can still feel her foot brushing against his, touch feather-light and careful. He’s definitely not risking it when Raven’s around.

Miller comes by with Monty after, and Wells too, and the rest of the night is spent in a haze of alcohol and darts and Octavia’s infectious laugh ringing in his ears. He’s suddenly and inexplicably fond of them sometime around 3am- his ragtag group of friends, his fucking  _ family _ \- and he realises, belatedly, that he’s drunk. Muttering an excuse under his breath, he stumbles to the toilets before he can do something stupidly sappy, fumbling with the buckle of his pants for a good five minutes--

“What’s up with you and Clarke?”

He yelps, scrabbles for balance against the cool ceramic tile, “What the  _ fuck _ , Raven?”

“Please,” she goes, dismissive, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

He glowers, “I can’t believe you.”

“And I don’t believe  _ you _ ,” she retorts, folding her arms across her chest, “Octavia may not have noticed what was going on before, but I did.”

Ignoring her, Bellamy crosses the room and turns on the tap, his head clearing slightly when he washes his face. The water feels frigid against his skin, making him shiver, but he’s all the more grateful for the surge of alertness it brings. “She was just taunting me, that’s all.”

“About what?”

He shrugs, makes sure to keep his voice light, “About me not getting laid in a while.”

Her eyes narrow into slits, “How would  _ Clarke  _ know about your sex life?”

“The same way you do, apparently.” he comments, dry, “It’s not that hard to tell considering you guys are here all the time too.”

“Why?” Raven asks, smacking her arm over the door and effectively blocking his escape path, “You’ve been surprisingly subdued recently.”

“Or maybe just unlucky,” he sighs, shouldering past her carefully, “can I go now? I’m drunk and exhausted.”

“Fine, don’t tell me.” she declares, trailing after him, “I’ll just find out on my own.”

“Suit yourself.” he says lazily, trying to school his expression to one of calm arrogance. He decides to stay a little while longer, if only to prove how little Raven’s interrogation had rattled him- only to realise that everyone else was leaving, with Clarke already gone.

“She got a phone call,” Octavia mumbles as a means of explanation, swaying precariously on Monty’s shoulder, “can someone call Lincoln for me please? I might be a little tipsy.”

He heads home after bundling everyone into their respective cabs, opting to walk instead in a bid to sober up. It does the trick, with the winds being especially fierce tonight, but he’s cold and grumpy by the time he lopes up the stairs to his apartment, keys jangling when he yanks them out of his pocket.

Then he realises that Clarke’s hovering by the door, and his anger fades almost instantaneously.

It’s a little unusual, considering seeking each other out after group activities was a risky venture. Their friends had a knack for barging into his apartment whenever they didn’t feel like making the trip back to their respective establishments, after all. It’s one of the pitfalls of living closest to town, and subsequently, the nearest bar.

Bellamy’s really not going to waste time being  _ upset _ about it though.

“Did we have plans?” he asks, pushing her up against the door and sliding his hand under her shirt, grinning into the soft skin of her neck when she arches into his touch.

Clarke scowls, fisting her fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss.

“You don’t have to be so smug about it,” she grumbles against his mouth after they pull apart, breathing heavily, and he fumbles to get the door open behind them.

They’ve barely made it to the couch before she practically tears his shirt off, hands roaming his back, mouth hard and demanding against his. He traces the divots of her spine, runs his fingers teasingly against her sides, drawing it out, until she pushes him down onto the cushions and bites at his shoulder.

“Patience,” he chides, laughing, pulling her up by her elbows so he can look at her. The expression on her face makes him stop short- eyes glassy, lips pursed- and his hand goes up to cup her jaw unconsciously, working at the tense set of it, “What’s wrong?”

She huffs, “It’s nothing. Stupid stuff, really.”

He pauses, shifting his arm under her knees and lifting her slightly so she can slide onto his lap instead of straddling him, “You wouldn’t be  _ this  _ upset if it really was nothing.”

Clarke butts her forehead against his shoulder, groaning, and he can make out the strain in her voice when she attempts to feign nonchalance, “It’s just my mom being her usual considerate self. I don’t-- I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”

Bellamy grimaces, and before he can over think it, slings an arm over her shoulders to pull her closer. He doesn’t know all that much about her mother, just bits and pieces that she would sometimes divulge when they’re both loose limbed and sated, but he does have a rough idea of the state of their relationship.

“Well, It is in my expert opinion that you shouldn’t have to be sober when it comes to discussing your mom.”

At least that gets her to crack a smile, muscles relaxing and sagging against him, “A drink does sound really good now, yeah.” Then, a little haltingly, her eyes lingering on his tented pants, “Is it-- are you sure this is okay though?”

“There’s always later.” he tells her, shrugging, before rising up to grab the wine glasses.

She falls asleep with her head in his lap before they get there though, snoring softly against his thigh while he cards his fingers through her hair. All things considered, he can’t say he minds, really.

 

+

“What?” Clarke pants, stilling above him, “Shit, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” he ekes out between gritted teeth, tightening his grip on her waist, “Can we please get back to it?”

She studies him, considering, reaching up to tug his hair between her fingers, “Not if I can help it. You could spare yourself the misery and just tell me already.”

Bellamy groans, lets his head fall back against the pillow.

“Oh come on.” she laughs. “You know you can tell me anything, right? We’re friends.” Then, snickering to herself, “Really close friends that is, considering you’re still  _ in _ me.”

He bucks his hips up at that- partly to tease, but mostly to spur her on- but all it does is cause pain to shoot up against his spine, a pained moan slipping out as he grabs at the sheets, trying not to cry out.  _ Fuck _ .

There is a beat of silence before she slides off him, glaring. “Get on your stomach, Bell.”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” he argues, patting his thigh, “why don’t you get back up here?”

“Yeah, we’re not doing this. Turn over.”

Grumbling under his breath, Bellamy does so, smashing his face into the pillow and releasing a pitiful whine when she begins to work at his lower back, kneading and rubbing at the tense muscles.

“So how did you hurt your back, mister oh so stoic?”

“Fell off a ladder while changing the light.” he mutters, suppressing a gasp when her fingers dip into the curve of his spine, “And I’ve always had a bad back anyway.”

He senses rather than sees her smile, “I can’t believe people actually think you’re cool. You’re like a grouchy old man with a myriad of back pains and  _ reading glasses _ .”

“You said you liked my glasses.” Bellamy reminds her, affronted. “You said they were  _ cute. _ ”

“Sure they are,” Clarke goes, all innocent. He scowls into his pillow, resisting the urge to sulk, and instead twists his arm back to pinch at her knee, making her squeal.

“No take backs, princess.”

“I changed my mind,” she huffs, pressing down on his shoulder blade with enough force to make him whimper, “you’re actually a five year old.”

“One that you really, really like.” he smirks, and she retaliates by smacking his ass lightly.

“Maybe it’s your mattress.” she remarks, after a beat, concern coloring her tone, “I don’t think you get that much support from it.”

“Wow.” he muses, biting back a laugh, “I really love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Clarke gives an exasperated sigh, and for a millisecond he thinks she might actually climb off his back and leave him to it, “See if I do anymore favors for you after this.”

Bellamy hums, sinking further into the warmth of the bed, sleepy and satisfied, voice muzzy when he remembers what he meant to tell her, “I won’t hold my breath then.”

It’s pretty ironic, then, when his new mattress arrives the very next week, courtesy of one Clarke Griffin.

“Don’t get used to it.” she scowls, planting her hands on her hips when he grins up at her, “You may not need the lumbar support, but I do.”

“Cool.” he says, mild, bouncing up on it experimentally. “Wanna test out the springs with me?”

“We’re returning it if it makes a single squeak.” she declares, pushing him down and tangling her fingers in his hair while the other works at his belt, making him laugh into her mouth at her eagerness.

He falls asleep soon after- according to Octavia, he sleeps like the dead if her constant recounting of how he once slept through an earthquake held any truth anyway- but Clarke makes enough of a racket for him to jolt awake, his hands instinctively seeking out her warmth only to come up short.

He blinks, sitting up, “Clarke?”

She’s half-dressed, one of his sweatshirts thrown over a pair of jeans and her hair loose, struggling to put on a pair of socks. He can’t explain the sudden surge of panic that rises up within him, except that maybe he sleeps a lot better with her here. God, he hates how much he has come to rely on her, on her company. Nightmares feel a lot less daunting when he has Clarke by his side.

Not just nightmares, he thinks. But probably everything else too.

“Where are you going?” he starts, voice sharper than he intended it to be, and Clarke winces, ducking her head.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says with exaggerated slowness, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, “but there is literally  _ nothing  _ edible in your kitchen.”

He can practically feel himself sag against the headboard, the thoughts swirling in his head quietening to a dull roar, “I think I have cereal and milk.”

The corners of her lips quirk up into a smile, “Lactose intolerant, remember? It’s no big deal. I was just going to run out and get something. Go back to sleep.”

“It’s fine.” Bellamy insists, grabbing his hastily discarded pair of jeans and yanking it up his thighs, “I’ll go with you.”

“God, you’re so pushy.” she laughs, fond, but hands him a clean shirt anyway, trying to help him smooth his hair down to no avail.

There’s a mini-mart just down the road that he used to love to frequent back when he was in college, the kind that put cake mix and seat cushions in the same aisle. He found fish food in the dairy section once too, a layer of frost sealing the lid shut and he laughed about it for fifteen minutes. “There’s method to madness,” he tells her, amused, when she shakes off his arm to clamber onto a trolley, knees pulled up to her chest and beaming up at him when he humors her and starts pushing it.

It’s interesting to see the stuff Clarke picks out. Bellamy’s always been a big believer in the whole, pick-whatever-is-on-discount-this-week approach, while Clarke’s the type who actually reads the labels on everything she buys- and he finds himself mentally filing away the brands she likes, the things she reaches for first.

“You know,” she comments, legs propped up over the rim of the trolley as they scan their items, “you really didn’t have to get family packs of everything.”

He huffs, “Well, I wouldn’t want to be  _ wasteful _ now, would I?”

“I really just wanted ice cream.” she snorts, taking a pointed bite, “You didn’t have to get all the soymilk or the roasted peanuts or my  _ tampons _ .”

He-- he doesn’t really have an adequate response to that. The truth is that he wants her to feel comfortable over at his place, wants her to come over all the time and stay, too. But it feels strange admitting it out loud, like crossing a line that he didn’t know existed, let alone considered. So he just goes, “Maybe all the food’s for me, princess. I could grow to like soymilk.”

“Dream big.” she tells him, mock-solemn.

He cocks a eyebrow at her, barely gives her anytime to react before swooping down to lay sloppy, wet kisses against her skin, making her burst into peals of laughter.

“Jerk,” she breathes, punching at his shoulder as he grins, throws an arm around her waist.

“You too.”

 

+

“Tell me again.” 

She sighs, accidentally decks him with her elbow when she tries to shift the headphones carelessly slung around his neck back up to his ears, “That’s what these are  _ for,  _ you dummy.”

“I think mine’s broken.” Bellamy says, innocent, giving her the most mournful expression he can muster under the circumstances. “Please?”

“It’s not like you don’t know any of these stories,” she complains, but moves closer to him anyway, laying her head on his shoulder, “you just  _ want _ to give me a hard time.”

He grabs her hand, kisses her fingers. “What else do I live for?”

Clarke shakes her head, but there’s fondness in her smile too, warm and easy and  _ good _ , “You’re such a jerk.”

He grins, bites down lightly on her thumb until she concedes, turning to face him. Her fingers are gentle against his skin, skimming his jaw, grazing his upper lip as she begins to trace the constellations, words low and earnest against her tongue, only pausing when he interjects.

_ Andromeda was the daughter of Cassiopeia, did you know? _

She traces Andromeda over the arch of his cheekbone, doubles back to extend the branches up to the corners of his eyes, and when he lets them fall shut, she sweeps her fingers over his lashes, too.

_ Remember the pegasus? Born when Perseus sliced Medusa’s head off. Fun huh? _

“I know this,” Clarke huffs, and when she traces perseus it’s over his mouth, tapping her pointer finger against the edges of his teeth, “why don’t you tell the stories instead, since you’re so good at them?”

“Later,” he promises, the arch of her brow posing too much of a challenge for him to resist.

And so he does, mapping the constellations with his tongue between her thighs and his nails rasping down her back. She cries out when he’s telling her about Apus, her legs hitched over his shoulders while he grins into the skin of her neck, and  _ does she know it means no feet, in Greek? _

“I’m bringing you to the museum every weekend.” she mumbles as he strokes her hair, sheets kicked off in favor of cooling off and afternoon sunlight streaming through window blinds.

Bellamy hums, tucks her more securely against the crook of her neck, “Sure. I did want to check out this bookstore too, though.”

“Bookstore on Tuesday, and museum on Saturday?”

“You drive a hard bargain.” he muses, laughing when she insists on keying in the dates on his phone, grumbling about how he’ll never remember otherwise.

“I know you too well.” Clarke mutters, and something takes off in his chest, the jerk of an airplane as it launches off the tarmac.

“Sure you do.” he says, soft, holds his breath right after. Waits for her to stiffen, or scramble out his arms with some poorly formed excuse, eyes wild with panic, the moment stretching and hinging from a knife’s edge.

But all she does is yawn, nosing the hollow of throat until he gets the message and rests his chin atop her forehead, curling his arm over her back.

The moment passes. His exhale is shakier than he’d like to admit.

 

+

Bellamy doesn’t think too much of it when he comes home to find his shower running- Octavia’s known to hijack his bathroom from time to time, with her insistence that the water pressure in his apartment is a lot better than hers- and he just sent Clarke off to work, so they definitely dodged a bullet there. 

Settling back against the sofa, he powers up his laptop and sets about crafting a feasible lesson plan for when the semester starts. He’s been putting it off lately, distracted by everything else-  _ Clarke _ , his mind unhelpfully supplies and he shoves the thought away immediately- trying valiantly to focus on the open spreadsheet document on his screen.

It works for the most part, even though he spends fifteen whole minutes trying to wipe an imaginary smudge off his glasses. He’s contemplating if he should swap the font from Arial to Times New Roman when Octavia stomps out of the bathroom, brandishing a toothbrush and screaming holy murder.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”

He cringes, yanks his laptop up to safety before she can anything else overtly dramatic that might result in him having to replace it, “Are you seriously mad because I swapped colgate out for crest?”

She scoffs, plants her hands on her hips, “Don’t play dumb with me, asshole. This is the second toothbrush I found in your bathroom, plus a spare towel and _ bobby pins.” _

“Why don’t you just tell me what you think I’ve done wrong then?”

Octavia’s mouth drops open into an indignant O, “You got a girlfriend without telling me, that’s what!”

Bellamy flushes, because the implication that Clarke is his girlfriend is  _ ridiculous _ , “How does hooking up translate to having a girlfriend?”

“Oh, so you buy toiletries for all your hook ups now?” she fires back, expression turning smug when all he manages is a strangled choking noise. “I can’t believe you would lie to me about this. Who is she?”

“It’s,” he has to bite back her name, scrubbing a hand through his hair frustratedly, “she’s not really my girlfriend, okay? We’re just. I don’t know, fuck buddies I guess. Regular fuck buddies.”

“Whom you bought toiletries for,” Octavia goes with exaggerated slowness. “I found the tampons too, Bell. And granola bars in your pantry. You  _ hate  _ granola.”

“Why does everyone like to make assumptions about my food choices?” he scowls, hating the petulant whine in his voice when he declares, “I could grow to like granola.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Octavia demands, though sounding way more weary than angry now, “It’s just-- I  _ know  _ you. This isn’t your M.O when it comes to hook ups.”

_ Well, maybe it is now _ , he nearly says- words borne out of spite- but she’s looking at him all hurt, the furrow in her brow pronounced and chin jutting out, and Bellamy sighs, relents, “Maybe I just didn’t say anything because I’m not sure either, okay?”

She deflates at that, flopping onto the sofa with a dramatic huff, “You know I’m good at stuff like this, right? You could have talked to me about it.”

He snorts, “You would have given me so much shit about it.”

“Probably,” she admits, shrugging, “but seriously, though. Is it-- it’s pretty basic really. Just answer the question: do you guys do anything else beyond having sex?”

He doesn’t trust to speak-not when it feels like there’s a rock weighing down against his tongue and grinding his words to dust- so he just nods instead. There’s movie stubs shoved in his jacket pocket and stacks of art books on his desk, her sweatpants thrown carelessly over the chair in his room and the crisp edges of her perfume lingering on his sheets.

Her possessions had unknowingly taken root into the corners of his home, and her, too.

“Bellamy,” Octavia asks, gentler than she’s ever been, “do you  _ want  _ to be dating her?”

He swallows down the lump in his throat, “Yeah. I really do.” Then, considering, “We _ might  _ already been on a few dates already, I’m not sure.”

Her eyes narrow, “Where did you guys go?”

“Bookstores, movies, the museum,” he responds, groaning when the grin on her face widens, barely suppressing a loud chortle as he glares, “don’t fucking start, O.”

She delivers a smacking kiss on his cheek, pats his shoulder for good measure, “She went to the museum with you  _ willingly,  _ Bell. Pretty sure you guys are already dating, at this rate. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“I’ll have you know that she’s the one who suggested it.”

“You guys are made for each other.” Octavia mutters, drawing back and reaching for her socks, hair still damp against her back. “Any chance you’ll tell me who the mystery girl is?”

Bellamy drops a kiss against her temple, “If it all works out, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

+

Clarke doesn’t come over that night- having been assigned an overnight shift at the hospital- and Bellamy deals with it, mostly. 

It’s just-- the apartment is way too quiet without her around. Coupled with his anxiety about the whole wanting-to-date-her situation, and it’s  _ basically _ become his own personalized version of hell.

Bellamy had grown accustomed to the sound of her socks sliding against the floor, the occasional rustle of pages from picking up whatever books he’s left lying around so she could skim through them, sometimes delving into them herself. There were the idle touches, too. Fingers breezing through his curls before ducking into the kitchen, a squeeze of his shoulder when he was hunched over at his desk. He had instinctively reached for two cups when the kettle began to screech- Clarke’s favorite sachet of tea clenched between his teeth- before he remembered. He goes to bed early that night, grumpy and worn out from all the worrying, trying  _ not  _ to fixate on the cool stretch of sheets behind him.

Bellamy’s sweaty and dishevelled when he gets up, which does nothing to improve his mood, until he realises that there’s a warm weight clinging to his back, hair tickling against the back of his neck.

Clarke sniffles when he shifts, lacing their fingers together carefully. He grins into his pillow, resists the urge to turn over and kiss her senseless. He would breathe  _ I miss you’s  _ into her mouth, dig his fingers into the creases of her hips to make certain of the fact that she’s here, that she came _ looking _ for him--

Then, groggily, words slurring together into a blur, “I can’t believe you keep your spare key on the top of your door.”

“And I can’t believe you could reach,” he retorts, squeezing her fingers. “How long did it take you?”

“Well, I didn’t want to wake you.” she mumbles, pressing a kiss against his shoulder blade, nuzzling it after, “I-- it was a frustrating day.”

“I’m glad,” Bellamy tells her, soft, “you want to tell me about it?”

Her shoulder pushes up against his armpit when she shrugs, and he wiggles out of her grip, turns to face her. “Nah. It wasn’t a bad day, per say. Just trying, I guess? It’s all petty stuff, like Jasper breaking the coffee pot, a group of patients being really rude to me, Monroe insisting I take the overnight shift on Friday.” Then, so light he nearly misses it, “I wanted to see you, that’s all.”

They lapse back into silence, Clarke’s fingers caressing the line of his jaw, absentmindedly rubbing at the bob of his throat when he swallows. There’s dust trapped in her fair lashes, grit caught between her eyes, and he brushes them away with his thumb before summoning the courage to say, “Octavia came over yesterday.”

She hums, easy as can be, “How was it?”

He licks his lips, clears his throat surreptitiously, “Good. She, uh. Thinks I have a girlfriend, so there’s that to worry about.”

“Oh.” Clarke frowns, “She found the tampons?”

“Amongst other things. Is this-- it’s absurd, right? She’s overreacting?”

“Well, it’s a natural assumption.” she replies, completely nonchalant, “I wouldn’t say it was completely out of left field for her to think so.”

Bellamy tries not to gape, closes his mouth with a quick snap when he catches her looking. “And-- and it doesn’t bother you? You don’t care?”

She arches a brow at him, “Not really. It bothers  _ you  _ though.”

“Well, because--” he flounders, scrambling for the right words to say, “I don’t  _ know _ . You do have a lot of stuff at my apartment, though.”

Her expression turns cold, “So you’re saying that’s what bothering you? All the crap I pile at your place?”

He swears under his breath, stumbling over his words when he continues, “That’s not it. I can’t-- I don’t want to change anything about this. It just,” he pauses, rubs his thumb over his knuckles in a desperate bid to ground himself to the moment, “I don’t feel like this is just a casual thing anymore.”

Clarke softens- not pushing any closer, though he can practically see her entire body relaxing against the mattress- “Are you telling me you don’t  _ want  _ it to be a casual thing?”

He takes a shaky breath, suddenly reminded of the first time they kissed and how his hands had shook too, like pulling up onto the crest of a hill, dangling one foot over the edge before plunging entirely. “I’m saying that I would like to take you on a date. Multiple dates, actually. Definitely more than one.”

She peers up at him from between her lashes, a grin inching up her face, slow but sure, “I think you might have already taken me on a few, Bell.”

He groans, dropping his forehead down to rest against hers, “And here I thought I did the whole, casual-sex-arrangement thing  _ really _ well.”

She laughs, pushing up to kiss him messily, breath stale but lips insistent, only pulling away so she can rub at the freckle behind his ear, give him a chaste peck on the nose. “You were pretty mediocre at it, actually. So disappointing. A real letdown, considering all the rumors I used to hear back in the day.”

“I’m sorry I’m actually a serial monogamist.” he responds, grave, holding the expression for all of three seconds before he  _ has  _ to kiss the smirk off her face, sliding her shirt up her stomach and running his hands down to her thighs, kneading lazy circles into her flesh until she twists her hands into his hair and pulls him down for a searing kiss.

“You’re a menace,” she murmurs after, everything else hazy and unfocused except for her lips against his ear, the warmth of her skin against his. Then, after a beat, “For the record, I want to date you too, Bellamy Blake.”

He smiles, fumbling for her hand before pressing a kiss on the flutter of her pulse, steady and strong and  _ good,  _ “Who says we aren’t already?”

**Author's Note:**

> *ignores canon harder than before*


End file.
